


toe-to-toe

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, Flustered John Watson, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pining, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 03, Sherlock Dances, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Teaches John Watson to Dance, Sherlock Likes to Dance, The Sign of Three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 10:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21444730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: John needs a little convincing before he’ll agree to letting Sherlock teach him how to dance.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 34





	toe-to-toe

Sherlock always enjoyed dancing. In fact, he loved it.

So, when John exclaimed—with absolute panic in his face—that he had no idea what to do about his and Mary’s first dance, Sherlock found himself struck by an idea.

It did, however, take a bit of convincing for John to play along.

The first time he broached the topic— “John, why don’t I teach you to dance?” — the casual suggestion was met with head shakes, frantically waved hands, and a quickly sputtered. “No! No. No, thanks.”

Sherlock pouted, but was not deterred. If anything, his resolve firmed, and he was determined that John say yes to him.

He told himself this was so very important to him simply because John was his friend, and as the best man, it was his duty to see to it that John did not trample on Mary’s feet during their first dance and make a complete idiot of himself.

He began by asking John if he knew any dances.

“The tango?” He asked one day, casually. John was sitting in the living room and Sherlock was in the kitchen, bent over his latest experiment.

“What?” John snapped, confusion edging his voice. Sherlock cleared his throat; readjusted a beaker and elaborated.

“Do you know how to tango, John?”

An annoyed groan from the living room was his only reply. Sherlock shrugged and re-evaluated his approach.

Three days later, as John stared helplessly at 5 shades of very similar purple, Mary seated beside him and explaining the difference—a difference John obviously didn’t see, going by the pained look on his face—Sherlock flicked his fingers, trying to get his attention. When John looked up, Sherlock mouthed:

“Fox-trot?”

John frowned, not understanding, and Sherlock slowly and deliberately mouthed the word silently across the table.

John’s frown deepened to a scowl and he tilted his head in a “so help me, god” expression that Sherlock knew meant he should stop talking. So he did, instead pointing at the lavender swatch.

“This one.” He insisted, and Mary nodded, pleased. John just sighed and covered his face with his hands.

“You’ll both be the death of me.” He declared.

The next time Sherlock tried to convince John, he knocked on the bathroom door, behind which John snarled at him.

“Quickstep?”

“Go _away!”_ Came the angry reply, and Sherlock quickly moved off down the hall.

During a case, as Sherlock leaned over the stiff body of a young man, laying on his side with a ligature around his neck, John crouched beside him, Sherlock whispered:

“Cha-cha?”

John looked up, brows knitting together. “What?” He hissed. Behind them, Lestrade turned his head.

“Do you at least know how to do the cha-cha?” Sherlock pressed. Sitting up, John stared at him.

“You’re asking that—_now?”_ He demanded, voice irritated. Sherlock shrugged.

“It seemed as good a time to ask as any.” He replied. 

John threw up his hands, getting to his feet. “Bloody hell, Sherlock—let it _go._” He’d stalked away, and Lestrade quirked a brow at Sherlock, who shook his head and rolled his eyes at John’s stubbornness.

In a second-to-last ditch effort, Sherlock cornered John when he came by to work on a case. When the other man walked out of the kitchen with a mug of tea, Sherlock moved right into his personal space; strode forward until John’s back hit the wall. Clutching the mug like a shield, he stared up at the detective, wariness in his eyes.

“Sherlock, what—” He fell silent when Sherlock planted a hand on the wall beside his head with a _whack_. John looked at him nervously as Sherlock leaned down, their faces very close together.

“John.” Sherlock began, grey-green eyes boring into blue. “I need you to tell me something. It’s _very_ important, so I need you to be _completely honest._” His voice was low and fervent; intense. “Do you understand?”

“Sherlock?” John questioned, clearly apprehensive. At Sherlock’s heavy stare, he quickly nodded. “Yes, okay. I understand.” He frowned, concern crossing his face. “Wait—is everything okay? Is there something wrong?” His hand rose, hesitating just before Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective rolled his eyes and batted the hand away.

“Yes, John, I’m fine. This is very important, so make sure you answer honestly.” In his fervor, he drifted closer, until their faces were hardly an inch apart. John swallowed, an audible click in his throat. His eyes shifted; settled on Sherlock’s mouth. His tongue flicked out, running along his own bottom lip.

“Yes, okay Sherlock. What is it?”

Sherlock ducked his head; sucked in a deep breath and seeming to gather his resolve. When he raised his head again, his eyes bored into John’s, and the doctor felt his heart racing. He found himself staring at Sherlock’s lips again, so close to his own with the detective’s breath hot on his face and couldn’t quite make himself look away.

“John. I _need_ to know.” Sherlock’s voice was low and forceful, and John shivered at the severity of his tone.

“Yes?” John prompted, mouth dry and heart erratic in his chest.

Sherlock took another deep breath; closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

“Do you _at least_ know how to samba?” The words shot out in a rush, and John froze, shock rippling through him.

“Wh—_what?_” He demanded, the words emerging as an incredulous yelp. Sherlock stepped away, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as John’s head reared forward in agitation. “_That’s _what you wanted to ask me?” He waved an arm, spilling tea from the mug clutched in one hand, evidently forgotten and cold. “With the wall and the personal space invasion, and _that voice_?” His face was red, eyes wide and blazing. “If I could _do the samba?”_

Sherlock looked at him with consternation, brows drawn down in oblivious confusion.

“Ye-es?” He said slowly, drawing the word out. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Wait—what did you _think_ I was going to ask?”

John turned away, sputtering, his face deeply red. “Nothing, Sherlock.” He snapped. “Absolutely nothing.”

Sherlock’s hand shot out; grabbed John’s arm and gripped with vice-like strength. “Wait, John—_do_ you?”

John paused, looking up with wide eyes. Expectation and apprehension scrolled over his features and he sucked in a breath, holding it. “Do I what?” He asked, breathless.

Sherlock frowned; moved closer and squinted at John as if he thought he might have a concussion. “Do you know how to samba?”

John slapped a hand across his eyes, pulling in an exasperated breath.

“Sherlock,” he said, slowly and with feeling. “Shut _up._” Falling into his chair, he settled into a thunderous silence, refusing to speak any further on the matter. Frustrated, Sherlock returned to staring at case files.

But he wasn’t deterred.

Just under a month until the wedding, he tried again. As John pulled on his coat in preparation to leave, Sherlock stepped forward, dropping a heavy hand on John’s shoulder.

“John.” He said, earnest, and the other man turned to him with narrowed eyes.

“What?” He snapped, and Sherlock sighed, letting his hand drop.

“John, the wedding is in three weeks, and you have not made a single effort to learn to dance— haven’t attended a single class.” He planted hands on his hips and frowned down at the other man. “Are you planning on swaying with Mary on the dance floor as if you were two teenagers at their high school prom?”

John sputtered, denial in his noises, and Sherlock stared at him until he sagged.

“Fine!” He shouted, throwing his hands into the air. “_Fine,_ Sherlock. _Bloody hell_, fine then. Teach me how to sodding dance, you _complete_ wanker.”

Victorious and smug, Sherlock sprang into action, clearing away papers from the floor and pushing furniture against the walls. John watched, overwhelmed and resigned, but with a strange quiver of excitement in the way he shifted his feet. Finally, queuing up a stately waltz song, Sherlock stepped over and stood in front of him, face expectant.

“Okay, but if we’re going to do this—” John moved to the windows, drawing the curtains with an aggressive jerking motion. Returning to his earlier place, he shrugged off his coat and tossed it onto the sofa. Clearing his throat, he looked anywhere but at the man in front of him. Sherlock moved closer, making John look up again, mouth set in a thin, hard line. As Sherlock gazed down at him, he snapped: “Well—get on with it, then!”

Sherlock snorted. “Come now, John. It takes two.” He held out a hand. When John hesitated, Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. “_John._”

“_Fine_.” John snapped, taking Sherlock’s hand and letting himself be pulled close to the other man’s body. “What now?” He demanded, staring resolutely over Sherlock’s shoulder, his face red.

“Put your left hand on my shoulder.” John did so, and Sherlock nodded. “Yes, like that. Good.” He placed his hand high up on John’s side, lightly gripping John’s shoulder blade. Fingers laced together, he raised their right hands. “Now—I’ll lead the first few times, and then, once I feel you’ve got it, you will lead, since you will be doing so when you dance with Mary.”

“First _few times?_” John sputtered, and Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

“Yes, John. Obviously. You will need to rehearse many times before the wedding, as I doubt you are a secret dance prodigy, and practice is integral to mastering a skill.”

John subsided, but he refused to look Sherlock in the face.

“Okay,” Sherlock continued, once John had stopped protesting. “When I step forward, you step back—yes, good John, very good. Now, step back and parallel your feet—no, John, not that one. The other foot. Yes, like that. Here, let’s try it again.” Sherlock moved them back to the starting position, John frowning at his feet as he tried to repeat the motions Sherlock detailed for him. “Foot back, then step with the other, yes, good. Bring them together. Okay, bend your knee, bring this leg forward—oh, but keep your balance John, you don’t want to fall on Mary.” Sherlock’s hand moved down to grip John’s waist, helping him regain his footing, and John’s face burned.

“This is ridiculous.” John muttered, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“How so, John?”

John looked up, finding pale eyes laser-focused on his face, and quickly looked away. “Nothing.” He replied, narrowing his eyes. The music ended, and Sherlock stepped away to restart the playlist. When he turned back, sweeping into John’s space and sliding his hand up his back, beneath his arm again, John trembled. Sherlock frowned.

“Everything okay, John?”

“Yes. Now shut up and teach me how to dance, dammit.”

Sherlock smiled, but did not reply, simply falling into the motions with the man in his arms. They practiced for several hours, John clumsy and slow; Sherlock sure-footed, graceful, and elegant.

When it came time for the underarm turn and the dip, John balked, steadfast refusal, until Sherlock coaxed him with gentle reminders of dancing in front of everyone for the first time; of how impressed Mary would be.

Grumbling, John subsided, letting Sherlock lead him again. John mixed up his steps in the turn several times, often moving the wrong way and bumping hard into Sherlock’s side. He almost brought them both to the floor when he tripped and stepped on Sherlock’s feet. Face red and set, he had soldiered on, tilting his chin with a determined light in his eyes.

As the weeks passed, John’s movements became surer and more confident. However, when they finally made it to the dip, the end of the dance, John kept leaning too far back, and Sherlock almost dropped him several times.

“John!” He eventually snapped. “If you keep pulling back like that, I _will_ drop you, and it will be your fault, not mine! How am I supposed to teach you if you insist on doing your best impression of a wooden plank!” John had given in at that, face almost permanently flushed and mouth set in a hard line.

As they moved through the steps again, John managing not to cock-up the turn, and Sherlock shifted forward; arm moving up to cradle John’s upper back, he slowly, expertly dipped him. With their faces inches apart, eyes locked, John found breathing suddenly impossible. His mouth went dry and his heart thundered in his ears.

“Sherlock,” he began, voice low and thick. “Sherlock, I—”

The door swung open and Mrs. Hudson stepped into the room, hands flying up in surprise as she took in the scene. “Oh!” She exclaimed, and John went rigid, before he flailed until Sherlock nearly dropped him onto the floor.

“Mrs. Hudson!” John gasped, regaining his balance and stepping quickly away from Sherlock, who only looked bemused. “He’s—we were—Sherlock is just teaching me the waltz!” His eyes widened. “For—for Mary! For my first dance with Mary!”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled, moving in to take a tray of empty teacups from the kitchen table. “Well, I can see that, dear.” She replied, smiling warmly at them both. “How lovely of Sherlock to teach you.”

John’s face burned as she left the flat, closing the door with a firm click behind her. He rounded on Sherlock, who was queuing up a new song. “We have to be more careful!” He snapped, pointing an accusing finger at the detective. Sherlock looked bewildered.

“Careful?” He repeated, tilting his head. His eyes were wide with genuine confusion. “With what? The dip? It’s your fault you almost fell, John. Really, you flailing like that was none of my doing.”

John just shook his head. “Never mind.”

Days before the wedding, John was finally leading, moving Sherlock about the flat with light touches of his hands and practiced steps. He wasn’t exactly graceful, but he danced with the efficiency of a man who more or less knew what he was doing, even if he was rather rigid in the way he shifted his hips. Sherlock allowed himself to be led, following John with sure feet and a relaxed form, hand solidly placed upon John’s shoulder. They had attempted the dip a few times, but with Sherlock’s longer height, it had been rather awkward. This time, the last time, John was determined; insistent.

“You’re sure?” Sherlock asked, looking wary at the thought of being dumped onto the floor, as had happened the first time, when John had leaned too far forward and abruptly released his arms, tipping Sherlock onto the hardwood.

“Yes. I can do it.” John said through gritted teeth. Sherlock had smiled amiably, shrugging to indicate his agreement.

They executed the turn, Sherlock rotating in an elegant circle beneath John’s guiding hands. When they came back together, John stared hard into Sherlock’s face, eyes meeting, and clenched his jaw when Sherlock nodded. Sucking in a breath, he gripped Sherlock’s shoulders; tightened their interlaced hands together, and carefully bent Sherlock back, making sure his arm was locked across Sherlock’s upper body.

Sherlock dipped, John leaning with him on planted feet, and then they were straightened up again, John almost panting with focus and Sherlock looking pleased.

“Good, John—very good.” He offered, and the other man flushed with pleasure.

At the wedding, as he played the waltz he had written for the occasion, Sherlock watched Mary and John move slowly together among the circle of onlookers. John moved with careful steps, and they gazed at one another with the weight of worlds between them.

And later, in times after the wedding, even without John in his arms, Sherlock would turn the waltz, using his vivid memory to imagine John’s hand in his as he moved about the small flat in the parody of partnered dance.

Sherlock always enjoyed dancing. In fact, he loved it.


End file.
